


Games

by Evilawyer



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-07
Updated: 2008-04-07
Packaged: 2017-11-16 17:42:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evilawyer/pseuds/Evilawyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All they've ever done is play games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Games

**Author's Note:**

> Post-LotTL AU in which the Master did not die and is being guarded by the Doctor. Reference made to the events of the Classic Who story "The Mind Robber".

“I suppose you think this is companionable.” The Master moves his knight to king's bishop seven. “Check.”

“Check?!” The Doctor pushes his reading glasses up his nose and studies the board. “Well, it is, isn't it? Two old friends, peaceably passing the time, not trying to kill each other, not battling over the fate of the universe. It's even been months since you tried to figure out a way to shrink me back down to gnome-size. No, we've been doing quite well, playing checkers and chess and canasta. It's been lovely.”

“All we ever do is play games, Doctor.” The Master does a neck roll, then raises his arms above his head and stretches his back. “I could use something more physical to work out the kinks.”

“Yeah, well, there's three gyms in the TARDIS. Help yourself.”

“A workout on indoor exercise equipment. How invigorating,” the Master says sarcastically. “You don't trust me at all, do you? Not even the tiniest bit.”

“Of course I don't trust you, Master. Why would I trust you? After all, ...”

“You know me,” the Master finishes bitterly.

“Well, I do. I know you through and through. It's like how I always know you when I see you. It may take a little while sometimes, what with your penchant for disguises, but I always know you. I told Martha I can always spot another Time Lord, which I can, but it would have been more accurate to say I can always spot you.”

“Presumably because you know me so well.”

“That's right. Which is why I know not to trust you.”

The Master watches the Doctor's hand hover over various chess pieces without committing to make a move. “Will you ever trust me again?” There's the faintest hint of strain in his voice.

The Doctor doesn't hear it. Studying the chessboard, he considers a number of different moves as he distractedly asks “Who said I ever trusted you before?”

“You did,” the Master shoots back heatedly. “Once. You said you trusted me with your life. Have you forgotten? Or was it just another lie?”

“No. I remember exactly what you're talking about and it wasn't a lie. I did trust you. Then. Maybe I still would if you hadn't spent nearly every century since destroying everything you touch and trying to kill me.”

“Such malleable trust. Well, it's not like you ever gave me the opportunity to show you it was well-placed. Too busy running away. That was you.”

The Doctor mentally discards the move he was going to make. “If you're trying to provoke me into a fight, Master, you might as well give it up right now. I'm not fighting you and I'm not letting you out of the TARDIS.”

“At least go out and pick up some companions, then. It's cruel and unusual punishment to leave me without any form of entertainment to stimulate my brain.”

“I'm stimulating your brain.”

“You think so? Well, think again, Doctor. All you're doing is making me more and more frustrated.” The Master stands abruptly and starts pacing.

The Doctor lifts his head and follows the Master's frenetic, circular progress between the chess table and the far wall of the console room. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Why does all this sound vaguely sexual?”

“Because you're a dirty old Time Lord with a dirty old Time Lord's mind? Yes, that must be it. It's all in your mind, since your body's clearly not up to the challenge.”

“I'm not having sex with you, Master.”

“Did I ask you to?”

“No, but you might as well have. You forget, I ...”

The Master squeezes his eyes shut “... know me, yes. How could I forget that?” He turns and walks back to stand in front of the far wall, his back to the Doctor. “If I hear you tell me one more time that you know me, I'm going to...” He places his hands like a supplicant on the TARDIS wall. “What am I going to do? What?” His voice is anguished and so low it's almost a whisper.

But the Doctor hears it. The dark, haunted desperation he hears there makes the Doctor rise from his seat. “Master? Are you all right?”

“Am I all right, he asks,” the Master answers, hands still on the wall and back still to the Doctor. “No, I'm not all right. Of course I'm not all right, you idiot. I'm stuck here. I'm trapped. With you. This is worse than the worst nightmare ever dreamed. I'm dying a slow death inside my head every day while you,” the Master spins around and points at the Doctor, “sit here reminding me I'll never get out. Playing fucking games and taking fucking forever to figure out what your next fucking move is,” the Master roars as he runs back to the chess table and upends it, sending chess pieces flying. “You bastard! You bloody, fucking bastard! This is killing me!” The Master's rage ebbs as suddenly as it crested, and he collapses to his knees. “How can you do this? How can you?” He buries his face in his hands.

The Doctor is at a loss as he watches the near-murderer of humankind tremble like a leaf in the wind. “Master? Are you...? Oh, you are. You're ...” He kneels beside the weeping Master and puts an arm across his shoulders. “What can I do? How can I help?” The only response is a single, strangled sob that escapes from behind the Master's hands. As he starts to curl in on himself, the Doctor shifts so he can wrap his other arm around the Master to hold him. He keeps the Master from rolling himself into a fetal spiral and tries to absorb the Master's tremors with his own body. “Please tell me,” he asks softly as he runs a hand up and down the Master's back. He hopes the Master finds it soothing.

The Master tries to stop crying, which only makes him cry harder. His hands scrabble over the Doctor's chest as he burrows his head into the space under the Doctor's chin. It's not until the Doctor starts gently rocking him that he manages to start calming down.

“You did this when I died, too,” he says, his breath still hitching as his body sways with the Doctor's rhythm.

“Did what?”

“Rocked me back and forth. You did it faster, though. If you did it faster now, would it help me die?”

The Doctor presses a soft kiss to the top of the Master's head. “Shh, Master. Hush now.” He waits until the Master's breathing evens out before he stops rocking him, but he keeps his arms wrapped tightly around him. “I didn't realize it had gotten this bad.”

The Master moves back a little. He wipes his eyes with his fingertips and his nose with the back of his hand. “It's always been this bad.”

“Is there anything at all that would make it better?”

“Letting me go would probably help.”

“I'm being serious, Master.”

“So am I.” He moves back and away from the Doctor, out of his arms, and sits down on the floor. “Would anything make it better? Let me think. No, nothing would make it better. Some company other than yours might relieve some of the crushing tedium, though. Why don't you ring up the sainted Martha Jones. She's always eager to be at your beck and call. Oh no, that's right. She isn't. Strange how some young women don't appreciate being treated like shit.”

“I can't bring anyone here, Master. I'm sorry this is so hard for you, but I can't risk it. I can't let you hurt anyone else.”

“Just myself, then. Oh well. Make sure you pick up some more razor blades when you next pop down to Earth to do some shopping.”

“Stop it,” the Doctor hisses. “Don't be stupid. Now, are you going to be serious about this and tell me what you can do short of killing and maiming to deal with your problem? Because I can't let you loose to wreck havoc on poor, defenseless, unsuspecting humans just because you're feeling a little ragged.

“Oh, there's my true friend. Always worrying about the other guy before he worries about me.”

“If you're just going to wallow in self-pity, I don't see how my worrying about you is going to help.”

“Never volunteer to work on a suicide crisis hot line, Doctor.” The Master sniffs and rises to his feet. He moves to the console and leans against it as he looks out into the room. “Maybe it would help if I kept a journal. Or wrote another novel.”

The incredulity in the Doctor's expression is eclipsed by the incredulity in his voice. “You actually wrote that thing?”

“Yes, I actually wrote that thing,” the Master mimics nastily. “I like writing.”

“You do? Since when?”

“Yes. Since always.” The Doctor hears the hopelessness in the Master's voice, but he chooses to be heartened by the fact that the Master is trying to think of a solution.

The Doctor rises and moves to stand next to the Master. “I didn't know that.”

“You didn't know something about me? What, is your omniscience slipping?

The Doctor ignores the barb in favor of exploring the mind-boggling but potentially helpful information he's just received. “I thought you had a more scientifically and mathematically oriented brain.”

“I do, but science and math are tools I've always had to work with. Words are toys I can play with.” Seeing the surprised expression that the Doctor is still wearing, the Master adds “I don't know why you're so stunned over it. You know me so well, after all.”

“It's just not something I'd ever think of you doing. You certainly never did any writing that I knew about.”

“That's not so,” the Master corrects as he shakes his head in disagreement. “You knew I wrote. I told you I did the time we met up after your first regeneration. Where did you get those ugly plaid trousers, by the way? Not that you haven't worn ugly trousers in other regenerations, but those were approaching comical.”

“What? Where was this?”

“You remember. That 'Land of Fiction' place. Don't think I ever found out it's real name, or even if it had one. It took me forever to finally get you there and trap you so I could try to get you to take my place as the reality-creator. I was trapped in that hellhole for decades, writing incessantly. Of course that was nothing compared to the twenty-five years before that, even at nearly twice the length. I had to spend those on early twentieth century Earth while I fixed my TARDIS without the proper parts and passed the long evenings writing 'The Adventures of Captain Jack Harkaway' for a boys' magazine. Which you, not surprisingly, knew all about. I always knew you had juvenile tastes.”

The Master doesn't notice the confusion in the Doctor's expression as he continues. “You know, you took a ridiculously long time to work your way through the puzzles and games to get to me. To be fair, though, you did use what still laughingly passes for cunning in you to free me from the master brain at lightening speed once you got to me. Being slaved to that thing was awful. Not as awful as this,” he pauses as he gestures around the room, “but awful, nevertheless. And you actually did all of the dirty work yourself that time. Jamie and Zoe didn't measure up to the Martha Jones standard of miracle working excellence. Although Zoe's bum was every bit as much a pleasure to behold as Martha's.”

“So, I helped you escape from there, then.” The Doctor directs his puzzled gaze at the struts, the walls, the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but at the the Master.

The Master doesn't notice that the Doctor can't bring himself to look at him. “That you did.” He continues his reminiscing. “It was almost heroic, the way you rushed over to me and disconnected me from the computer matrix, no thought to your own safety. Which is actually no little thing considering how that regeneration of yours seemed to be a lot like the Cowardly Lion.” The Master, lost in memories, smiles abstractedly. “It was nice, feeling you touch me again after so long. I was passing out at the time but I could still feel you touch me. It was just the feel of your hands on my shoulders,” the Master looks down at the grating below his feet, something like shyness coloring his expression and voice, “but it felt good. And when you didn't let Jamie convince you to leave me behind, even though I had technically tried to kill you, that was....well, that was pretty heady stuff. I've always wished I could have just come straight out and told you that it was actually me instead of having to hide behind a disguise to keep the master brain from figuring out I was a Time Lord. No sense in us both getting trapped there forever. Still, as you say, you always know me. And I did give you a huge hint by using my own name even though I was masquerading as an early-twentieth century English schoolmaster.” The Master looks fondly at the Doctor. “Do you remember how you ...”

The Master stops talking when he sees the Doctor's face. It's contracted into an expression of hard thought, of serious effort to put two and two together and come up with four. “Doctor?” The fond expression on his face fades as realization dawns in his eyes. “You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?”

The Doctor still can't look the Master in the eye. “Of course I do. Strange place that was. One of the strangest places I've ever been. And that fiction challenge game, that was one of the most unusual games we've ever played. Cyrano de Bergerac and D'Artagnon, now that was a fight. Blackbeard versus Sir Lancelot was bit bizarre, though. And that's not even taking into consideration that it was all a fight to the death between you and me. Actually, taking that little fact into consideration makes that game par with the course as far as games between you and me have always gone. No, I remember everything about that place. I remember...” The Doctor trails off as he finally forces himself to look at the Master's face.

“You don't remember me, though. You thought I was a hapless, helpless old human. That's why you helped me.” The Master's voice and face are impassive, but the Doctor thinks he sees traces of hurt in the Master's eyes. The Doctor wants to put his arms around the Master and rock him again, but he holds himself back. He knows doing that would be the very worst possible thing he could do right now, so he doesn't do it. He can't stop himself from wanting to do it, though.

“I'm sorry,” the Doctor says. He means it this time, and not in the general 'I'm sorry about everything-anywhere-anytime' way he's meant it every time he's said it to the Master since Professor Yana opened his fob watch. He means it about the very specific pain he's just inflicted on the Master. The pain is brand new, but the injury it comes from is so old that there is absolutely nothing the Doctor can do to make it better. The Doctor knows this, and hates it, and offers an apology because that's all he can do.

As usual, it's not enough. The Doctor can tell it isn't enough because all the Master does is draw in a breath and shake his head a little before his facial expression shifts to bored resignation. He rights the chess table and starts retrieving chess pieces from where they fell on the floor. The Master has, the Doctor remembers as he watches him set the board back up, perfect recall. Every piece is exactly where it was just after the Master checked the Doctor.

The Master sits back down. As he sits down in his own chair, the Doctor softly asks “What regeneration were you in then?”

The Master makes minute adjustments to the alignment of his knights and a bishop. “Your move.”

“Master,” the Doctor says, trying and failing to keep the pleading quality from the syllables. “I didn't mean to...”

The Master doesn't wait to hear what the Doctor didn't mean to do. “Or would you rather play canasta?”

The Doctor moves, restoring his king to safety. He then keeps his eyes on the board as the Master considers his own next move and says “I hadn't.”

The Doctor looks at him questioningly. “Hadn't...?”

“Regenerated. Not yet. That was my first body. The only one you actually did know. Or so I thought.” The Master makes his move. “Checkmate.”

The Doctor glances back down to the board. “Yes. It is, at that.”


End file.
